Red Specter
by Cheimon
Summary: A journey into Balalaika's mind, as narrated by a ghost.


Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I claim to own, Black Lagoon. I acknowledge Black Lagoon as the work of Rei Hiroe This is merely a work of appreciation that I do not receive pay for.

Notes: This piece is…creepy, even for me. I still haven't gotten this thing just right, but I'm fed up with it. And I'm experimenting with a new style of narration in this one, so if _that_doesn't scare you…

"Red Specter"

Monsters have dreams, and your dreams always start out with red. Red for the flag and the blood and the ribbons in the little girl's hair. A reminder of what you used to be, before you became what you are now.

In your dreams, the flag flies high, snapping crisply in the wind. It is red and gold, and very beautiful. It represents your country. Was there ever one more glorious? They tell you, _Never_. They tell you that there's no reason to run. They tell you that you will be safe. They say you are lucky; you have been given a chance despite your bad family. They stand you up in front of the others when you are disobedient, and say that you are in danger of becoming a discredit to your country, a detractor of its glory. Like your traitor father. You are deeply ashamed. They say, _You must do better_. You must become a credit to your country. You agree. Once something is said enough, it becomes true.

You are intelligent. Strong. You know you can never outrun the pain, because you carry it with you. But you still try. You run in circles, approved by your country. It betters you, as your feet slam into the ground and your legs churn out the distance. Later, you run towards the enemies of your country, to increase its glory and your own, and that of your men. They have become your country, and you, theirs. Your loyalty is binding.

You run into Afghanistan, and if there was ever a Hell, that was the Devil's castle. In your dreams, it is a place of chaos. You felt more alive than ever there, with Death clinging to you like the scent of tobacco.

But at the end of that dream comes the bitter tang of failure, because there was a little girl once, with red bows in her golden hair: the colors of a beautiful flag, from a beautiful country. She would be beautiful, a credit to her country. She would learn to be strong and obedient and restrained, and to sacrifice. She would always seek to be an asset to the Soviet Union. She would not be selfish or weak. And of course she is gone, and a woman with a scarred, broken body and no ribbons has taken her place. It's okay: The other children are gone, too. Their bodies fell, paving the sand in Afghanistan, or they were burned or exploded in a bombing. You still see them, sometimes. Their eyes are dead.

Tip your head and swallow back the pain; it's all you can do. Swallow the pills, too, and let them freeze you in time. You don't like to dream about that. You don't like your ghosts - not even me, the one who follows you the most closely, sitting in the corner to stare. You catch me out of the corner of your eye sometimes, and then pretend there's nothing there.

Yet, you're the one who brought me with you. The child you didn't kill, forever tucked safely in your head. I'm a reflection you can't look away from; an echo you can't stop hearing.

You dream of laughter as your flesh is burned away. You still haven't realized that it's yours. You don't want to. So, I won't tell you.

You have a dream that comes back to you, again and again. It hasn't happened yet, but it could.

The streets are coated with blood and paved with bodies. Guns lie where they slipped through the fingers of the newly dead. The buildings are blown-out shells, walls and windows exploded outward or blasted inward. The twisted metal skeletons of abandoned cars, littered with bulletholes and scorched, can be found every few hundred meters. Fiery explosions make the ground tremor. Gunfire is a constant chatter, diminishing as the combatants kill one another off. Smoke hangs in the air in a haze. Soon everyone will be dead.

The entire city, after all, reeks of death. The death of trash, of people who have been shoved aside and used up until there's nothing left but the bitter core. That's the part that stinks the worst, once you've stripped away all the unnecessary human niceties.

And there is, in this dream, a final exchange of bullets between you and the Chinese man. Final, deep holes of pain punched through your flesh to let the blood waterfall out. Bones coming through skin, pure, pure white. Beautiful. A beautiful death. All your comrades dying with you, as it is meant to be. The Sergeant at your side, hearing "Captain" fall from his mouth and break in the air. Saying "Sergeant" back, as a last benediction. Good soldiers dying together, not in Afghanistan but in the streets of Roanapur. At least it rains more often here. More rain to wash the coat of blood away.

You will die and take the rest of your world down to Hell with you, as is fitting for a monster. The Chinese man will have his hands mangled, his guns shot from them, a bullet - maybe a few bullets - in his gut, his sunglasses broken and lying on the ground. He will collapse in a mangled heap. His ridiculous scarf will be bloody red. A third eye will be blasted into his forehead, smashed through his skull to leak out his brains…

This dream makes you smile as you wake up. You lean over and kiss that spot on his head before you leave.

Such dreams, they begin and end with red.


End file.
